“Well, I reckon that’s about all we can do,” said Honey Wier, as the jury was dismissed. “Anyway, it’s all we can do until we can put the deadwood on the men who done the shootin’.”
“Which can’t be done,” declared Abe Allison, a lean-jawed, tobacco-chewing, wry-necked cowpuncher. “My idea is to wipe out all them —— sheepherders, and by doin’ that we can sure hit the guilty ones.
“By ——, that’s what I’d like to do.”
“Hop to it,” grinned Sam Hodges. “There ain’t nobody settin’ on your shirttail, is there, Abe?”
The crowd laughed, but with little mirth, while Allison bit off a fresh chew and tried to think of some smart remark to hurl back at Hodges, who was probably two or three answers ahead of Allison.
The prosecuting attorney, of the stolid, red-faced type, whose very presence breathed the majesty of the law, scanned the faces of the crowd until his gaze rested upon Hashknife and Sleepy. He had been long in Lo Lo Valley, and knew every man, woman and child. After a close scrutiny he turned to the sheriff.
“Sudden, who are the visitors?” he asked.
The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy, and his eyes flashed around the circle.
“Gentlemen, I don’t know,” he said mysteriously. “They laid claim to being stranded from a cattle-train but their opinions has kinda led me to think that mebbe the sheep was their reason for bein’ stranded. Queer things has happened since they came, so I decided the safest thing to do was to keep ’em kinda in sight. This might be a danged good place to ask questions, folks.”
Hashknife and Sleepy had not moved. The sheriff’s words were as much a surprize to them as they were to the crowd. Then one of the cattlemen swore audibly and several shifted in their chairs.